Violets & Violence (8 page)

I raised my attention, watched the surprise settle onto his face, like the sun rising on the west coast instead of the east.

I whispered, “She’s already here.”

Rinker heard me, but he wasn’t listening. He half-stood and leaned forward on that folding table. “Pardon me?” he asked. Again, just to be sure.

I nodded at the cardboard cutout set slightly off to my side. “Violet is already here,” I repeated, and then I started laughing. It felt good to let the hysterics out, the accumulated madness from my sentence on this cross.

Rinker rolled his eyes and dismissed me as half-lunatic. His facial expression hinted at disbelief. It proved to me that he didn’t believe in magic after all. Because the moment he sat down and let his guard down, Violet spoke to me.

All I had to do was close my eyes, and I sensed her, loud and clear.

She was here, already. Right here in the Imperial Theater. And within the next hour, she would be standing in this room, turning this promotional cardboard cutout into a real life, flesh and bones, full of heart and passion Violet.

And then the violence I had buried would follow.

Like it always did.

The Wayne County batting cages were located just outside of Troy, Michigan. An old friend from my childhood, Darren Rawlings, owned the facility, so whenever I needed an outlet, Darren said I could have access to one of his cages.

The facility, like the Macomb batting cages (his closest competitor, except Macomb was in Saint Clair Shores, which was ritzier and a little farther out of the way) closed at three on Saturdays. Even so, after receiving my call, Darren somehow managed to find a college kid, or someone in that age group, to drive out and grant me access a little after six that night.

“What’re you looking for?” the kid asked as he walked across the gravel parking lot in the dark, heading to where I stood at the front entrance. He unlocked the door, reached inside and flicked the light switch.

“To hit a few balls,” I answered as he waved me inside. As soon as I stepped in, the lights flickered before coming to life.

“I meant speed,” he clarified, locking the door behind us.

“Eighty, ninety miles per hour?” I removed my jacket despite the lack of heat in Darren’s facility, and headed to the back where the cages waited for me.

The kid whistled, impressed that someone my age would still hit at those speeds. The reality was that I couldn’t—the ball came at such a rapid rate that connecting with it depended largely on luck and prayer. Which made the exercise such an exhilarating rush.

“That’s a pro cage,” he said.

“Rough week,” I explained. “Shittier weekend.”

He chuckled as he veered away from me. “I get it.”

I popped a helmet on my head, donned my batting glove, and found one of the newer bats, a plain-Jane Wilson. Taking a few practice swings, I envisioned Violet suiting up for her show right about now, rising onto the stage or magically appearing out of thin air.

Her last text message about being in New York overnight, Friday to Saturday, had made me curious. What would she have done in New York? Clearly, another man was involved. I had no doubt about that. Why else would anyone travel to New York for an overnight trip? We had the Somerset Collection right here, so it wasn’t for the bloody shopping.

“All set,” the kid announced on the other side of the fence.

I stepped into the cage, backed up far from the plate. “Let’s see it first.” I nodded at the pitching machine, wanting to see where the ball would come and where I should stand without having to worry about taking a pitch in the face.

The kid loaded a bucket of balls into the basket, and then flicked a switch. There was a quiet humming from the motor. The first pitch
whooshed
past me, directly over the plate, and hit the padded wall behind me with a painful
thud
. If one of those balls struck me, I could easily die.
Always an optimist.

“That was eighty-seven,” the kid shouted over the hum of the motor as I stepped into the batter’s box.

Nodding back at him, I lowered myself into my squat and stared straight at the pitching machine’s barrel. Like waiting for a bullet. Tapping the corners of the moveable home base, I waved the bat to loosen my wrists, and then—

Pop.

Swung too late.

Whoosh-thud
.

Timing was everything. Had my timing been off with Violet as well? Had I waited too long to contact her and lost her? She
had
warned me, hadn’t she?

I’d thought she was joking.

Pop-whoosh-thud
.

I barely swung at all. Too distracted to swing,  too unfocussed.

“Want me to slow ‘er down a notch?” the kid asked.

I shook my head no, tapped the corners of the plate again, settled into position, and waved the bat even though my wrists were as relaxed as they’d ever be.

A woman like Violet really had no reason to use magic as a way to attract a man. She possessed beauty, youth, and a profile that oozed the kind of sexuality that had you begging for her to make you disappear…between her legs.

Pop-whoosh
—
crack!

The ball bounced down the first base line to the nearby fence. It felt good to hit it, to exorcise my frustration. The next one connected a little better, and the one after that sounded like perfection.

I kept swinging, kept connecting, when a plan gradually took shape in my head.

Once I had finished the first basket of balls, the kid loaded the second. And then the third and fourth. I spent two hours pounding out my frustration on a small ball of five and a quarter ounces. It felt good, the best workout and stress reliever known to humankind.

After the fourth basket, he asked, “One more?”

I shook my head, the sweat dripping down my face as I left the cage. “Nah. It’s time to get on with the weekend.”

Cruising back into town, I settled on the long route and rolled past my ex-wife’s house. I noticed the gate was closed and, for the first time in forever, I didn’t really care.
Normally, driving by resulted in a stop-and-stare moment, followed by a few days of self-pity and self-loathing. Unanswered questions did that to people; I knew I wasn’t alone. But with Violet on my mind and a plan in sight, I barely even slowed down.

I wandered into Detroit, not speeding because I knew I had plenty of time, but aware of just how ridiculous traffic could get in a town that had been written off as dead by the rest of the world. Where did all of these people come from on a Saturday night?

Once I reached the Fisher, I drove around to the back and entered the parking garage. I drove up a couple of levels to the first free parking spot, and then sat quietly in my Toyota, closed my eyes and allowed the silence to envelop me as I sought clarity.

After a healthy half hour of waiting, I opened my eyes and noticed that people were starting to pour into the parking garage, heading to their vehicles. Mostly they were couples holding hands after a great date night of the most spectacular magic they had ever seen. I could tell from the smiles and sparkling eyes that Violet hadn’t disappointed her audience tonight and part of me felt sad that I may have missed her best performance yet.

Why do I even care? I’ll see the next show, it’ll be even better.

And all at once, I wondered if this was such a good idea. If coming here had been wrong of me.

But I stepped out of the car anyway. And I walked around to the Fisher’s front doors, pushing against the flow of attendees, letting myself inside, and then heading deeper into the theater. I surveyed the mostly empty space, aware of the curtains on the stage, protecting whatever it was that the violets were doing to the props and equipment on the other side, the hard work that made the magic possible. As the last stragglers left the theater, I reached for my phone and typed a quick message to Violet.

I’m here. Can I please see you?

I didn’t have to wait too long. Her response came within seconds.

You are? I didn’t see you! I’ll meet you in fifteen minutes, wait in the theater!!

I couldn’t keep the smile from surfacing. All at once, the worry that had haunted me and led me to the batting cages tonight evaporated. It hadn’t taken a few basket of balls, either; a simple text from Violet had a more immediate impact.

And this worried me, at least a little. Because we were nothing, we meant nothing to one another. We were just two grown adults who had shared a couple of dinners, a kiss or two, a connection that existed. At least, in my head.

“Hey,” she said, stepping up behind me. She was so quiet, I hadn’t heard her.

I swung around, noticing the smile on her face. Her greyish-green eyes lacked familiarity, and I wondered if I had already “lost” this woman after one quick trip to New York two nights ago.

What were you doing there, Violet? Who did you see?

She was wearing trendy tights and a heavy sweater to keep herself warm; her hair had been drawn back into the same Detroit Tigers ball cap that she had been wearing at Chicago’s O’Hare airport.

“No suit?” she asked, reaching out and pinching my long sleeve. She stepped closer to me, erasing the distance between us.

“It’s Saturday,” I told her.

“Then kiss me,” she answered, tilting her neck so that I could press my lips to hers.

It felt like I was kissing her for the very first time.

I drove north on Woodward, not because I thought I might impress Violet with my Toyota Camry, but because I didn’t want to relinquish control to her by taking her vehicle. My logic also suggested that we might be able to enjoy some form of conversation, just the two of us cruising like this.

              Every few blocks, we came across flashy cars—lowered suspensions, fancy lighting, booming sound systems—and even flashier scenery—people peacocking for attention for the most part, a juggler, a street fight just past Woodlawn Cemetery. All good fun, late on a Saturday night in Motown.

“Do you like it here?” I asked once traffic started moving again. “Not everyone was built for life in Detroit.”

She chuckled, and I glanced over and caught her staring out the passenger window at nothing in particular. “It was never intended to be permanent for me, Carter,” she admitted. And the way her words rolled off her lips, I could tell she meant
I
was never intended to be permanent.

“I thought that, too,” I admitted, swallowing that acidic dread that her admission had evoked. It reminded me of those first few pitches at the cages—I had to step back, just to let them sail past, and I could gauge their behavior. Better to observe than get punched by a hardball travelling at ninety miles per hour. Just like this conversation. I stepped back. “My ex-wife was the spawn of a GM executive and his first administrative assistant. She could never leave this shit hole of a town, even when people started burning their own homes as an excuse to flee.”

“And you?” she asked, curious the way a new coworker or cab driver might be.

I chuckled. “My childhood neighborhood was swallowed up by the neglect and desertion that is synonymous with this town.”

“Sounds cool,” she said, but it didn’t sound convincing. At least she didn’t yawn. “Your parents still around?”

I shifted. “Dead. I inherited the house, it’s one of the last ones on their street, all boarded up and overgrown.”

“Huh,” she replied, staring out the window again for a few blocks. “So you were married,” she asked, but it wasn’t so much a question. “What happened, was it swallowed by the neglect and perversion that is synonymous with marriage?” She chuckled at her own question, but all I could manage was a smirk.

“Desertion. Neglect and desertion, no perversion.”

We laughed harder, and then she asked again, “What happened?”

I shrugged. Another bottleneck of cars on Woodward. I heard the squawking of tires and high-pitched engines as people raced off
. In the summer, automobile enthusiasts transformed Woodward into something of a production, with long-forgotten makes and models, and smoking tires at the intersections when the traffic lights turned green and it was safe to hold the gas pedal to the floor. Tonight wasn’t a Woodward Dream Cruise night, not even close.

I decided to finally answer Violet’s question, hoping to conceal the little bit of regret that remained. “That’s a question I’ve asked myself a million times.”

She turned her attention to me as we reached Birmingham. “Do you blame yourself?” She seemed curious.

“No,” I sighed. “I blame her. Almost exclusively.”

“Wow,” she admitted, surprised, and I noticed that the curiosity had gone.

I clarified, “For lying to me and playing games and chasing a checklist of things she could touch instead of accepting and appreciating the things only your heart can feel.”

I heard the grin in her voice when she said, “That’s sweet, Carter Borden. You’re a poet with words like that.”

I caught myself grinning as well, and I turned onto Old Woodward in Birmingham, then I made a quick left onto Brown Street.